


One for Each Night

by VioletHaze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Chanukah, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hanukkah, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, SPN Holiday Mixtape, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletHaze/pseuds/VioletHaze
Summary: A chance look at a Chanukah display in a shop window takes Dean back a quarter of a century to a childhood memory he thought he’d forgotten. Cas can’t change what happened then, but he finds a way to make sure Dean has a new, happier association with the holiday. Dean knows just how to thank him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods of the [Spn Holiday Mixtape](http://holidaymixtape.tumblr.com)! This was a fun challenge and I loved having the excuse to write something with a bit of a Chanukah theme. 
> 
> [Kai](http://cluelessakemi.tumblr.com) and I collaborated on this project, and I continue to be amazed by her incredible talent. I am forever grateful to this fandom for giving me the gift of her friendship.

After the stuffy heat of the bar, the air outside is sharp with cold. Dean shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and falls into step beside Cas as they head toward what could only generously be called downtown. Empty storefronts with faded “For Lease” signs dot the rundown stretch of unremarkable buildings.   

The night is quiet. Other than one fast food joint, all the businesses are long closed. Dean’s been in places like this a thousand times, forgettable towns in the middle of a state somewhere in the middle of the country. He’s made this walk from bar to motel more times than he can count, in every kind of weather. Tonight, he ducks his head against the cold as the warmth from the whiskey is quickly replaced by a chill in his fingers and the tips of his ears.

Cas walks next to him, closer than he should in a small town like this, but still too far away for Dean’s liking. With Christmas on the horizon, Dean forces his mind away from _how much time did we waste_ to _this year we’ll celebrate together_.

In an attempt to make things festive, the streetlights on this block have been adorned with large, bristly snowflakes that look like they’ve been made from giant pipe cleaners. Time and weather have tattered and frayed the silver accents, and Dean can’t decide if these sad decorations are better than none at all. As they walk, a gust of wind catches one of the snowflakes. There’s a shrill creak of metal on metal as it lists at an alarming angle, but stays tethered to its pole. Dean tugs the zipper of his coat a little higher as they continue toward a few shop windows blinking with multi-colored lights, illuminating the displays inside.

They walk past a discount shop with an array of household goods staged in a holiday scene. A metallic, hot pink tree hung with kitchen utensils dominates the window. Next to it, an electric log glows in a fireplace under a mantel hung with a family’s worth of red felt stockings. In front of the fireplace sits a rocking horse with a green bow tied around its neck. Tucked into one small corner of the window is a Chanukah display. On a bed of white cotton batting “snow”, a painted wooden step stool holds a plastic menorah. Each branch of the menorah is topped with a light bulb and five of them are switched on. _Four nights plus the helper_ , Dean thinks automatically. An oversized dreidel and a stack of foil-wrapped chocolate coins complete the display. 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s stopped walking until Cas calls his name. When he finally responds, it takes him a long moment to tear his eyes away and look at Cas. 

"Everything ok?" Cas looks at him with open concern, and that’s enough for Dean to try and reassure him with a small smile.

 

 

"Yeah.” He glances at the window one last time before walking on. “I just remembered something I haven't thought about in a long time." Cas looks at him expectantly but Dean shakes his head. "It's nothing. Just something stupid."

"If it's important to you, I'd like to hear it."

Dean rolls his eyes because Cas seems determined to find value in his every inconsequential word.

They’ve only moved a few steps away from the window but he pauses again, lost in his own thoughts. In a single heartbeat that shop window transported him back in time nearly a quarter of a century. The memory it uncovered popped up with no warning, and his first instinct is to stuff that cork right back in the bottle. Even though Cas asked to hear about it, it would be easy enough to shrug it off and change the subject. Doing that might leave Dean on the receiving end of one of Cas’s slightly disappointed looks, but Cas would let it go.

There’s no point in dredging up the past, Dean decides, and he takes a deep breath to tell Cas just that. But when he turns toward him, the dismissal dries up. Cas stands there in the cold, watching Dean intently. His lips are extra chapped and his breath makes frosty clouds and there’s an earnestness in his eyes, like he genuinely wants to hear what Dean has to say. As has happened more and more often since they’ve been together, Dean finds that he wants to tell him.

"I was eleven, Sammy was seven," he begins, anchoring the story in time as they start to walk again. "Our dad had us living in an apartment outside Pittsburgh. It was a dumpy place, but we were used to that.” There were so many he couldn’t remember, featureless rooms and buildings that ran together in his mind, but this one, at least that front room, was seared in his memory. “It was close to Christmas and people did what they could to decorate for the holidays. I remember one door had a Steelers wreath made entirely out of beer cans.” He smiles at the memory. He and Sam had briefly considered using dad’s empties, to make their own somehow. “Even if they had nothing else, most apartments managed a string of lights or something in the front window. I’d helped Sam cut out some snowflakes from tablet paper, but Dad ripped them down one night when he was drunk.” Dean can feel Cas watching him but he keeps his eyes straight ahead. “Anyhow, we were up on the second floor and the apartment across the courtyard from ours didn't have any decorations either, so that made us feel better, you know? Like we weren't the only ones who couldn't afford something?"

Dean glances over at Cas, looking for the pity in his eyes. But Cas merely nods at him, blue eyes so focused that Dean idly wonders when Cas will get sick of hearing these stories from Dean’s childhood. Dean tries to be matter of fact about them. He doesn’t want it to sound like he’s complaining because, really, he’s not. He and Sam were together and that’s what mattered. Not the things they didn’t have.

"One night, like a week or so before Christmas, there's a candle in that window. Two actually. I knew it was for Chanukah and that it lasted eight nights but Sammy knew about menorahs because somebody’s mom had brought stuff in to show his class. He told me that you used one candle as a helper to light the other ones so there was always an extra one lit. Each night when it got dark we waited to see those candles appear.”

Dean can picture it perfectly. Sammy kneeling backwards on the couch, his chin resting on his hands as they watched out the window. Skinny, his too small T-shirt leaving a gap of pale skin, a hole in one heel of his graying socks.

“One night the most delicious smell came from across the way. Just potatoes and oil, I guess. No different than French fries really, but somehow it smelled better and…special. Just like how those little candles made that shitty apartment look fancy."

Cas smiles at him. "That sounds like a nice memory."

That night Dean had used the last can of soup, Chicken and Stars that he’d stretched with a second can of water. With the rest of the cupboards nearly empty, he’d dug into the stash of diner freebies for a couple of the cellophane wrapped saltines they kept with the sugar and creamer and ketchup packets.

He shakes his head slightly to bring himself back to the present. "Well, I couldn't wait to see how that menorah looked on the last night all full up with candles. I don't know why but I got it in my head that it was going to be so cool." Dean shrugs, his face going hard.

"What happened?" Cas asks softly, reaching for his hand. 

"Dad came home with a new lead on the seventh day. We were packed up and gone before nightfall.” Cas squeezes his hand but Dean doesn’t squeeze back. "I told you it was dumb."

"It most certainly is not," Cas says with a forcefulness that surprises Dean. "You had too much taken from you far too young."

Standing in the darkness between two streetlights, Dean leans forward to brush a few snowflakes from Cas's hair before kissing him softly. "I'm over it now, I promise."

They walk the rest of the way back to the motel in silence, shoulders bumping. Dean opens the door to tonight’s room: lumpy mattress covered with an ugly bedspread, scarred dresser top, curtains that won’t stay completely closed no matter how you tug at them. It’s got nothing but the basics, less even than that apartment in Pennsylvania, but there, with Cas by his side and the knowledge that Sam is off working a case with Eileen, Dean realizes he couldn’t ask for anything more. He learned a long time ago that, for him, home is tied much more tightly to  _who_ than to  _where_.

He and Cas get ready for bed together. Dean squeezes toothpaste on Cas’s toothbrush for him while Cas pulls out the pajama pants that neither one of them is going to wear. The self-consciousness he used to feel at these domestic moments has been replaced by the comfort he gets from the familiar routine. Dean stands behind Cas, arms wrapped around his middle, chin resting on his shoulder, and Cas smiles at him in the mirror, mouth full of foam. Dean laughs and kisses his neck. Cas is ridiculous and perfect, nothing Dean deserves and so much more than he ever dreamed he could have.

The slope of the old mattress pulls them toward one another, but they would’ve done that anyhow. They meet in the middle, together taking up much less space than two grown men should. Tonight, Cas kisses him gently, touches him with something approaching reverence and Dean, for once, lets himself accept this tenderness in the spirit in which it’s given. Afterwards, Cas holds him tightly and Dean lies with his head on Cas’s chest.

Sometimes Cas talks in his sleep. Sometimes it’s Enochian that Dean doesn’t understand but knows he’s heard murmured between kisses. Sometimes it’s random facts like _bees are responsible for pollinating 95% of our food source._ Only once did Dean lie awake for hours after Cas muttered _smite the seven-eyed beast, it's under the bed._

Tonight, though, there’s nothing but the steady, reassuring heartbeat that has become Dean’s constant companion night after night, place after place.

 

They spend another ten days on the road picking up easy hunts as they meander back and forth across the middle of the country. There’s a lone vamp they get a quick jump on in Rapid City, a wraith in Ogallala that’s barely strong enough to make them dizzy much less hallucinate. Dean’s tickled at tracking down a ghost outside of Casper, Wyoming. Warming themselves as the salted remains flare and burn, he explains why it’s funny, but Cas smiles more at his reaction than at the actual joke.

Maybe it’s the proximity to Christmas but things seem quiet, like the monsters themselves are taking a holiday. With no big bad on the horizon for a change, their run of good luck isn’t tinged with dread that the other shoe’s getting ready to drop.

When they arrive at the bunker, Sam’s already there and he blushes when Dean asks how his trip was, so that’s enough of an answer for them both. Dean smiles and slaps him on the back.

Dutifully, Cas helps unload the car but then he’s gone again without telling Dean where he’s going. Even though he drove off in his shitty Continental and literally said _be back soon_ when he kissed Dean goodbye, Dean fights down that reflexive flash of panic as if he’s whooshed away into the ether without a backwards glance.

Dean’s unpacked their bags and moved the first load of laundry from the washer to the dryer before he hears the front door slam and Cas come down the steps. His first impulse is to go to him but, for fuck’s sake, they’ve spent the past few weeks together and he’s only been gone an hour. There is absolutely no reason for Dean to go scurrying out there like he’s been pacing a widow’s walk all this time.

Instead, he sits casually on the bed pretending to read as he waits for Cas to come find him. Only Cas must not be even half the sap Dean is, because Dean waits, flipping unread pages, while he tries to glean what Cas is doing. From what Dean can hear, he’s in the kitchen.

Dean turns another page. Come to think of it, his stomach _is_ a little rumbly. He glances at his watch and slams the book shut. Definitely overdue for a snack.

He forgets to play it cool when he gets to the kitchen. Sam made a food run when he got back, but the table is covered with groceries. “What’s all this?”

Instead of answering, Cas crosses the room to kiss him hello. Dean rolls his eyes and points out that he’s only been gone an hour before pulling him in and kissing him again.

Cas tips his head at his purchases. “Thought we’d give it a try.”

Dean looks again, more closely this time, and sees the big bag of potatoes and a smaller one of yellow onions. There’s a dozen eggs, a large bottle of peanut oil, and a canister of something Dean doesn’t recognize. He picks it up to examine it: matzo meal.

Cas is already rattling through drawers, digging through various implements and utensils. He strides back over to where Dean stands and presses cool metal into his hand. Dean looks down to find himself holding a potato peeler.

 By the time Sam wanders in, Cas is peering into a large bowl filled with grated potatoes and chopped onions. He’s already added varying amounts of beaten egg and matzo meal, stirring after each addition. He looks again at the recipe he’s pulled up on Dean’s laptop. Frowning, he adds another spoonful of the matzo meal and then a generous pour of salt.

Sam comes to a stop in the doorway. “What’s happening?”

Dean stops grating long enough to toss an unpeeled potato at him. “Latkes, Sam. If you wanna eat, you gotta help.”

It’s a perfectly placed throw, aimed right at his brother’s chest, and Sam barely has to raise his hand to snag it. To his credit, he doesn’t even bother asking why, just reaches for the peeler. “I saw a recipe where you can lighten these up by using zucchi—“

“No.” Dean says, resuming his grating. “We’re going the traditional route,” he adds.

Sam laughs. “Ah yes, we Winchesters have such a long history of latke making,” he says, then his brow furrows in thought. “Oh hey Dean, remember that apartment across from ours? Where was that?”

Dean smiles at him. “Outside Pittsburgh.”

 

It takes some trial and error but once they get the oil hot enough, the latkes came out crisp and golden. One by one, the potato pancakes are lifted from the frying pan and set on cookie sheets lined with layers of paper towels. The broken bits are fair game for eating, but when Dean tries to sneak a whole one, Cas gives him a smite-filled look and swats at him with the spatula.

When the last of the batter has been spooned from the bowl and fried, they carry the laden trays to the table. Cas eats his plain, Sam delicately tops his with applesauce, and Dean swirls the applesauce and sour cream together for a visually unappealing but delicious combination.

They eat until they can’t eat any more and sit for a long time contentedly full, happy to be together while they gather the energy to tackle the resulting mess. The kitchen is in absolute shambles. Oil has splattered all over the stove top and the counters and the floor. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes. Bits of grated potato and onion are stuck to everything. Anything the cut potatoes touched now has a dried residue of potato starch.

They scrub and rinse and dry until everything is clean again. Even with everything washed, the rich smell of fried potatoes hangs thickly in the air.

When Sam tells them goodnight, Dean gives the now-gleaming kitchen one last look. Then he backs Cas up against the counter. “You didn’t have to do that,” he says a little gruffly.

“I know,” Cas says simply. His eyes are so soft, shining at Dean.

They both know that what Dean really means is _thank you_ , no matter how hard it is to say. He’s getting better at it, but this is so much more than a simple thanks. Cas listened and he remembered and he knew it meant something to Dean. Cas couldn’t go back in time to re-write the ending of that story, but he could give this to Dean now, give him something new that Dean will always have in tandem with that old, painful memory. He’ll have this night with his angel and his brother, all of them safe and together and with more food than they could eat.

This wasn’t just a cooking project; this was Cas caring for him on every level there is. The knowledge makes Dean feel like something in his chest might burst, something he’d never be able to put back together again. He can’t go there, not right now.

Instead, Dean kisses him gently, arms loose around his neck, fingers running through his hair. Cas presses into him and Dean is struck with sudden inspiration as to how to properly show his gratitude. He deepens the kiss, moving his hands down to Cas’s waist and holding him tightly as Cas makes the tiniest, pleased sigh. Working one thigh between Cas’s legs, he kisses down Cas’s throat, past his fluttering pulse point then back up to nip at the underside of his jaw. Pinned between Dean and the counter, Cas molds himself against Dean, pulling him even closer and drawing in a quick breath when Dean darts his tongue into Cas’s ear. Dean works both hands under Cas’s t-shirt, fingers spread wide to cover as much warm skin as he can reach. He slowly glides his hands up and down, deliberately teasing over Cas’s nipples until Cas is rocking his hips to grind against Dean’s thigh. Dean kisses him hard, thumbing both nipples at once, and Cas moans into his mouth. Pulling away, Dean smiles at him and reaches for his belt.

Sometimes there’s nothing he likes better than long, lazy times in their bed. Hours spent with both of them naked, their limbs intertwined as they leisurely touch and kiss and explore. But there’s no denying the appeal of Cas like this, his hair and clothes disheveled and his jeans barely off his hips. Dean presses one more gentle kiss to his mouth, spares a quick thought to hope that Sam has well and truly retired to his room for the night, and gets on his knees.

He buries his face in the crease of Cas’s hip, nuzzling at him for a long moment before fitting his mouth to the sharp jut of his hipbone. He palms at Cas through his underwear, outlining the half-hard shape of him then teases two fingers along his waistband. Glancing up, Dean sees Cas has his head tipped back, both hands gripping the edge of the counter. Dean stays still, patiently waiting until Cas meets his eyes. Then Dean licks his lips and dips his fingers under the elastic to free Cas's cock.

Hands tight around Cas’s hips, Dean takes him into his mouth, pleased at how quickly Cas hardens as soon as Deans drags his tongue along the underside. When he switches his focus, sucking the tip lightly before tonguing the slit, Cas relinquishes his hold on the counter and reaches instead for Dean’s hair. As Dean takes him in more deeply, the light carding of Cas’s fingers turns into sharp tugging that has Dean moaning around the hot length filling his mouth.

Sometimes Dean still can’t believe he’s allowed to have this, that he can be so close to Cas. It humbles him and it seems fitting that Dean is here on his knees trying to give back a tiny fraction of what Cas gives to him. Being together like this is an act of trust as much as an act of intimacy, and Dean isn't going take it for granted.

Shifting his aching knees on the hard tile (and making a mental note to pick up one of those gel chef mats) he bobs his head, picking up speed until Cas’s breathing turns to panting above him. Only then does he release Cas’s hips so he can thrust into Dean’s mouth. When Cas tightens his grip, tangling his fingers in Dean’s hair to keep Dean just where he wants him, Dean works one hand down to cup and roll his balls, and the other one up to pinch at a nipple. Cas gives a quick, sharp cry and goes still for a moment before coming with series of slow, deep thrusts. Dean’s ready for it and he swallows before pulling off and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Above him, Cas slumps against the counter, his face flushed and his eyes dreamy with pleasure. He reaches down to help Dean up and shivers when Dean tucks him back into his clothing, even that gentle touch too much. Cas kisses Dean, holding his face in both hands, and Dean knows he can taste himself. 

“I’m down for eight nights of this,” Dean says, resting their foreheads together.

Cas raises an eyebrow. “In the kitchen? Sam would never forgive us.”

Dean laughs because there’s still a certain place at the table where Sam refuses to sit. He slides his hands into Cas’s back pockets.  “You know I’m happy anywhere we’re together, right?”  

“I do,” Cas confirms. He runs his fingers through Dean’s hair in an attempt to undo the mess he’s made.

Dean leans into the touch. “Having said that, I really missed our bed.”

Cas takes him by the hand. “Let’s go.”

“Hey,” Dean says, as he switches off the kitchen light. “What would you say to a game of strip dreidel?”

**Author's Note:**

> My sfw fics can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder).
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://scones-and-texting-and-murder.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/sconestextmrder)!


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